The Solution
by wneleh
Summary: What will it take to restore Holmes to health?


Author's note: Written for hc_bingo on LJ.

The Solution  
By Helen W.

The time has come to make a full public confession of one of the acts of my life I most regret. I write this knowing that I will be judged. But, better a mixed reputation grounded in truth than the overblown one that has arisen since I became Boswell to Mr. Sherlock Holmes's Johnson.

(I am aware that, in some circles, I am considered rather a buffoon. I have, at times, found this vexing. But my wife testifies that this isn't a completely inaccurate conclusion; and it is, at least, based on facts, as best I have been able to present them, given the limits of my talents and the requirements of confidentiality.)

The sorry incident I recount here occurred early in my acquaintance with Holmes, shortly after the unexpected commercial success of the first of these scribblings. Holmes had been engaged, at a considerable fee, to journey to Boston, Massachusetts, to investigate the disappearance of a daughter of the local aristocracy. Though years have passed, I cannot give further detail, except to say that the lady eventually made peace with her family, and has had as remarkable a career as her brothers.

I, being unattached to either work or woman at the time (my few patients being easily passed along to a colleague), accompanied Holmes. I was eager to see the New World, having already seen far more of the Old than most men. I confess I was also looking forward to the voyage itself; Holmes had been booked into a stateroom more than spacious enough for the two of us, a far cry from the quarters on the troop ships I'd endured (even as an officer). And, the truth is, I love the sea; can almost envision myself a Naval officer, in fact.

I was also looking particularly forward to traveling with Holmes as a companion. He was, at the time, more hale and, frankly, cheerful, than ever before or since. I attributed a good portion of this to his recent success in weaning himself from cocaine, a process I had had a small hand in; and had, I believed, provided the primary motivation for.

We set sail at 9 a.m. out of Portsmouth on a beautiful, clear spring day. We settled into chairs on deck to watch our homeland shrink into the distance; then, finding that Holmes knew less about the ocean than he did about the solar system (that is, very little indeed), I embarked upon an explanation of the vagaries of sea state, oceanic weather, ship, and crew structure.

I was quite pleased to find myself developing a bit of an audience, primarily young Americans returning from European tours; a wealthy family on extended holiday; and several elderly sisters traveling to visit children in Halifax. Of the younger set, one in particular caught my eye: a man of perhaps 23 with the sallow pallor of an addict. Had Holmes looked the same at that age to those who did not know him?, I wondered.

Holmes had been unusually quiet during my discourse; and, after a spell, he retreated. Giving my regrets, I soon followed him.

Entering our stateroom, I found Holmes bent around our chamber pot, retching pitifully. "I say, old chap, you seem to be suffering from a touch of _mal de mar_," I said, trying to sound cheerful. "Nothing to worry about, it will pass quickly."

I rang for a steward, then convinced Holmes to return to the deck with me, this time to a location which afforded some measure of privacy. "Now pick a spot on the horizon and keep your gaze firmly locked upon it," I advised.

Holmes valiantly tried to follow my directive, but shortly he was leaning over the rail of the ship, trying to bring up matter which simply wasn't there.

When it was obvious my first attempt at a cure was a failure, we returned to our stateroom and Holmes settled uncomfortably into his berth. It being time now for supper, I left him to his own devices and joined the ship's surgeon at his table, by his invitation. I mentioned Holmes's discomfort, and the surgeon suggested the same remedies I knew of already, primarily a range of tonics I had little faith in and will not bore you, the reader, by describing.

That meal was to be my last pleasant hour for quite some time. When I returned to our stateroom, I found Holmes in a state of great, if quiet, distress and already showing some early signs of dehydration, namely dry, loose skin. All that first night at sea, through the second day, and through the second night I labored to convince Holmes to drink just a bit of water, swallow just the smallest dose of what the ship's surgeon gladly provided. But it was all for naught; Holmes was able to retain nothing.

During that second night, Holmes's condition steadily worsened as the effect of two days without absorbing liquid took their toll. His heart and respiration rates increased dramatically, he no longer perspired, and he began to experience cramping in his legs and stomach, which gradually increased in severity.

His mental capacity experienced similar, though perhaps not as severe, degradation. Though he said little at first, I suspected he was beginning to believe that he would not live to see New York; my suspicions were confirmed when he began to talk of things best left unsaid. He seldom thanked me for my ministrations; his words were aimed deeper. "Watson," he said again and again, "You are my best and only true friend. I want you to know this." And, less frequently, "I have been enriched beyond measure by your friendship, dear fellow. If I die, at least I will have had this."

Of course these declarations broke my heart!

On the morning of the third day, it occurred to me that perhaps the extremity of Holmes's malady might be due to, of all things, bodily weakness caused by his recent successful weaning from cocaine. I'd discounted the surgeon's suggestion of narcotic tinctures early on, primarily because I did not believe them effective, but also to protect my friend from a relapse. Now I simply wanted him to survive.

The draughts the surgeon could provide were simply too dilute to be of any use, though, given Holmes's extensive experience. I then remembered the sallow youth who'd been part of our party our first few hours aboard the ship! A quick description to the surgeon pointed me to the very man; the exchange of five times what the drug was worth on the streets of London gained me a decent quantity in injectable form.

It was difficult to find a vein, not least because of initial unsteadiness on my part. I collected myself as best I could, and soon was dosing my friend with a substance I hated.

The effect was almost immediate, however: Holmes opened his eyes and said, "A little water, please, Watson…"

Holmes's body tolerated that drink, then another, then another, and then accepted a bit of ginger drink.

After a spell, he took my hand for what would be the final time that voyage. "I dare not move yet… but I believe you may safely leave my side, my dear Watson."

Of course I didn't move for many more minutes, but I finally took my leave and washed up properly for the first time since we'd left Portsmouth. When I returned to our stateroom, Sherlock Holmes was asleep.

Holmes continued to dose himself for the remainder of our voyage, and though I would not say he was the picture of good health, he no longer seemed to be in any danger; in fact, seemed very much himself when we docked several days later. As was his usual, he did not use drugs at all during the case, but having somehow restored his stock in Massachusetts he steadily dosed himself during our return voyage, and continued his habit intermittently for several more years. I do not know what permanent damage this prolonged use caused, but I fear Holmes will not live as long or as well as he might have done.

I am certain his use would not have resumed had I not been so desperate during that horrible transatlantic crossing; but I do not know what other course I could have chosen.

May history judge my actions kindly.

* * * THE END * * *

All comments welcome! Really, I've been admonished by people tougher than you.


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